


Concrete Crowns

by marelicarter (padmefuckingamidala)



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Bisexual Bucky Barnes, Bisexual Female Character, Domestic Violence, F/M, Homophobic Slurs, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Mental Breakdown, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Modern AU, Past Abortion, Rape/Non-con Elements, Suicidal Thoughts, bucky isn't the winter soldier, slight AU, trigger warning
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-09
Updated: 2019-12-03
Packaged: 2020-04-23 06:30:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19145452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/padmefuckingamidala/pseuds/marelicarter
Summary: Steve Rogers’ sister escapes an abusive relationship with only a bag of items to her name and a myriad of injuries. When she shows up on his doorstep, it’s not just a shock for him, but also his new friend and neighbor, Bucky Barnes.





	1. Chapter 1

The scene opens in shame, the primadonna taking center stage with a bag slung over her shoulder and her eye throbbing under a vibrant purple ring. She shouldn’t be here, she feels horrible just standing here, but curtain was called and it is now too late to back out. The understudy is nowhere to be found. Her breathing is too labored to sneak away--she curses herself, heart breaking in two from the laughter she hears on the other side, and hides her tears as well as she can.

The door is right there. It’s so close, just inches away from her fingertips. Just behind the door is her brother, her savoir, the one that will most likely pull her out of yet another mess. Her entire face stings, the cut on her side is still bleeding, because of course, her life is not put together just yet. This one time, she does not want to be the star. She wants to be in the ensemble, to have nothing positive nor negative happen to her. Blood drips down and splatters against the hardwood floor and her shoe.

Finally, as if it was the play that kills her entire career, she knocks on the door. Laughter stops. Footsteps, unlocking, twisting, and finally, an open door. Her brother looks happy to see her until he spots the black eye, and as he ushers her into his apartment, the curtain finally closes behind her.

“What happened?” he asks immediately.

She can’t lie to Steve Rogers, the big brother everyone else dreamed about having in their family one way or another. He’s the golden kid, America’s sweetheart, and right now, he’s worried sick about her. She whimpers as she’s pushed to the couch. “I got into a fight with Brock. Wanna guess who won?”

“Holy shit, who is this and why is she bleeding all over your couch?”

She locks eyes with a stranger. He’s physically exhausted, she notes by the bags resting under his blue eyes. He has long brown hair that’s pulled back into a bun, a few days worth of stubble, and shit, he’s looking at her like she’s dying. Is she dying? No, she can’t die yet. Can she? Before curtain call? Steve opens her jacket to reveal a wound and she hisses as the air hits it.

“Bucky, this is my sister,” Steve grumbles, pushing your bag out of the way. “Y/N, this is my neighbor Bucky. This is really bad.”

“It’s just a cut,” she reasons.

“A cut? It’s gushing. What the hell did he do?”

“He stabbed me, but it’s not that bad.”

Bucky and Steve gape at her. Her words are, of course, ridiculous, but she can’t go anywhere. A hospital? That costs money, money she needs to leave Brock for good. She’s already putting her entire career in the garbage. Brock is the director, the one that keeps her dream alive and keeps casting her. Once she stood up to him and walked out, she was done. Absolutely done. Brock had credibility, and no one would cast her in another play as long as she wasn’t under his thumb.

“You need to see a doctor,” Steve urges.

“Can’t you just stitch it back up for me?” she asks with a harsh breath. She’s hurting all over and she doesn’t know if she’ll make it through. If dealing with the pain herself meant she could save money, she’s going to sit there and do whatever home remedy they could think of.

Bucky’s wetting a rag as Steve helps you out of the hoodie and pulls up your shirt to expose the wound further. “I don’t know how to do stitches,” he says. “You know this. I’m not a doctor, I’m not a nurse, I have no idea what you want from me, Y/N. Let’s go, we’re getting you some professional help.”

Bucky’s by your side with a frown. “Hold on, Steve. Do you have any unflavored dental floss?”

“Yeah,” he answers. “Why?”

The cold water makes her yelp. Bucky’s working quickly, wiping up the would and holding it there. The water’s so cold it starts to numb her skin, just enough to where the pain goes away. She sinks back against the cushions. “I need that, a needle, and some rubbing alcohol.”

“Are you going to stitch her up?” Steve asks frantically. “Buck, look, I--”

Bucky gives him a strange look, and that’s all it takes. Steve’s off to find the items he requested. Y/N is still on the couch, a pile of mush and blood in front of her brother’s neighbor. “This is going to hurt a lot, okay?”

“Are you going to charge me?”

“No.”

“Then I don’t care.”

Steve returns with the items quickly. He sets them by his friend’s feet and stands nervously around her. How did she let it get this far? Questions and accusations twirl in her mind, and she doesn’t know they’re causing harm until Bucky presses a cold, damp hand against her forehead. “Hey. You with me?”

“Yes,” she breathes.

“Good. Tell Steve about your day.”

She begins to talk, tears in her eyes as she tells her brother about rehearsal. It was fine until it wasn’t. Her heart thumps in her chest as she begins to talk about Brock, and the fight, and--

“Fuck!” she yelps, fighting to keep her legs still. She nearly kicks Bucky as a result, causing him to nearly pull at the thread in her side, which would have been bad. 

Bucky slips the needle through for the first time. He holds her leg steady and stares up at her. “Hey! Calm down, it’s okay. You need to stay calm if you want me to do this.”

“It hurts,” she whines. “I’m sorry, I’m really sorry.”

“We can always take you to see a doctor,” Steve offers.

“Steady her against the couch, okay?” Bucky says, pushing the needle the whole way through and pricking her skin for another stitch.

Steve holds her down like she’s an animal. “What did he do?” he asks again. His tone isn’t gentle—he’s worried and it hurts her heart, striking her nerves and resulting in more tears. The dental floss stings her wound but she’s too desperate to go back.

“Y/N, hey,” her brother persists, “you need to tell me what he did.”

“He punched me,” she finally gasps. Her nails dig into her brother’s arms, Bucky’s work hurting just as much as Brock’s. “He told me if I told anyone about a few nights ago, he’d do worse. Fuck, Steve, I was so stupid. I talked back to him, he punched me, I tried to call you, but he tried to make sure I couldn’t dance anymore.”

“The stabbing?”

“Yeah. He tried to nail me again but I dodged.” 

“Wait, back up a bit,” Steve instructs. “What happened a few nights ago?”

She’s holding an unwanted sob in her throat and she’s terrified of letting them see her much weaker than she already is. This isn’t going the way she planned. To tell them what happened a few nights ago is embarrassing, it’s a loss. She swallows the sob the best she can and turns her head so she doesn’t have to look at them. “He wanted sex, I didn’t.”

“He raped you?”

“I mean… technically? Yes? I gave in though, so it wasn’t--”

“He fucking raped you,” Steve finishes. “Did you say no?”

She nods. “I said no, but I couldn’t push him away. He…”

“He what?”

“He tied me down when I said no. And then he got mad at me when I tried to refuse so he left me tied up, and I was stuck in bed for four hours.” Embarrassing. Talking to her brother about this is awkward, but it’s worse to let him know how helpless she was. Steve says nothing, but he’s angry. She can tell. Bucky doesn’t say anything, either, because it’s not exactly his place, and he’s afraid of making her feel uncomfortable. What do you say to a stranger that’s been through so much?

She spots a small red mark on her upper arm, and looks down at Bucky, the sob bubbling once again in her throat. “Do you have anything for burns?”

“What the fuck,” Steve hisses. “How did you get burnt?”

“He threw a candle at me.”

“How long has this been going on?”

Shit. She’s at the awkward crossroad. Let’s look at the options: she could either lie and say a month, which would only lead to more snowballing lies, or she could tell him the truth of two and a half years, the span of her acting career, and rip it all off like a bandaid. Either way, Steve is going to be upset about the secrecy.

“Y/N,” Bucky speaks up this time, his hands stopping. “How long?”

“Two and a half years.”

Bucky clenches his jaw and Steve—well, Steve doesn’t speak right away. His arms are tense as they hold her steady. 

“Please don’t be mad at me,” she begs quietly. “I didn’t know what to do. It started out small, he held my entire career in his hands. I’m sacrificing everything for my safety. And that terrifies me.”

Bucky begins to stitch again. The wound isn’t deep enough to call for actual medical attention, luckily, but Steve still worries. Bucky, on the other hand, is confident in his abilities. Once the needle pierced her skin again, she can’t hold back the sob that’s been building up.

“We should take you to the hospital,” Steve says again. “I know you’re scared, but you’re hurt.”

“I don’t have the money for that,” she sobs, bringing Bucky to a halt once more. “I only have one hundred dollars to my name and I need that to start over.”

“Start over?”

“Everything I own is in that bag.” She points to the small duffle she’d brought. It’s rather small and worn, probably only capable of holding three outfits. Her hand shakes as she wraps it back around Steve’s arm, bracing herself for the pain. “I have no phone, no job, nowhere to live, and nothing to look forward to, all because I couldn’t keep my mouth shut and take a few punches.”

“Don’t talk like that,” Bucky orders. “You did the right thing. You got out of an abusive relationship. Do you think Steve would rather get a call saying you’re dead than let you sleep on his couch?”

“I have to find an entirely new career path,” she answered. “I’m back at square one. Everything I’ve worked for is gone. I know he’s a great guy and all, but he’ll have to deal with me for months before I could even find anything better than a minimum wage job.

“I’ve been there before,” he says. “I’ve let myself get hurt to the point I was hospitalized because I was afraid of asking for help. Your brother may snore so loud I can hear him from my apartment—”

“Hey!”

“—but he’s still a good guy. He broke into my apartment to feed my dog because my roommate was out of town and I was running late.”

She wipes her eyes with shaking hands and sighs. “You’re right. I… i just need to take a breather and then pick up the pieces.”

“That’s not what I was saying, but you’re close enough.” Bucky repositions himself and looks away from you. “Can I continue? Or should we wrap it and get you to the ER?”

“Keep stitching, please. I may be accepting help but I’m still broke.”

Bucky finishes the stitches and makes her drink a glass of water. As soon as the cup’s empty, he refills it. She downs the second one and Steve ushers her to his room, giving her a pair of sweats and letting her take his bed. “We’ll sort everything out tomorrow,” he assures her. “Get some rest, okay?”

“Okay.” She changes and climbs into bed, falling quickly into a deep, dreamless sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! So a while ago I deleted my tumblr but I remade! I'm still @marelicarter there so feel free to follow, I'll follow back (but it's a side blog so it won't follow from the same name, sadly).
> 
> Thank you guys so much for the support! I'm working on a Loki/Reader story if anyone's interested. I have about 30 pages written so if anyone's interested, be on the look out :)

The morning is stiff and sore, much like her body, and it stings with every movement. She wants to get out of bed but pain ricochets through her entire body. Shit. Trapped, she sighs and reaches for her phone—oh. Right. She doesn’t have one.

She can yell. The alarm reads ten-thirty. So Steve should be awake. If she yells out, she won’t wake him up… right? Anxiety takes over her body. She wants to scream out of anger--anger at herself, at Brock for putting her in this situation, and anger at the world for letting her life fall this far down the hole.

Before she can call out, the door opens, and Bucky presents himself with a small basket of medical supplies. “Oh. Hey.” He smiles at her, his eyes creasing around the corners. “How’d you sleep?”

“Good,” she answers. “I hope I didn’t ruin your night too much.”

“Not at all.” He sits beside her, resting at the foot of her bed and setting his little plastic basket down beside her knee. “I just wanted to do a quick checkup before work. Could you uncover your leg? I didn’t get a chance to check it yesterday, I just want to make sure there’s no more wounds you’re hiding.”

“Let me get out of these sweatpants.” She shimmies them off under the covers, kicks them off the bed, and uncovers her legs, keeping the comforter on her lap to hide herself a bit. Bucky’s fingers are soft, she notices; he holds her leg gently to examine the cuts and scrapes before pulling her shirt up slightly to reveal the stitches. “I forgot you stitched my side,” she admits, “my leg stings so much for some reason.”

He clears his throat uncomfortably. “You have rope burn on your one leg. It’s a wonder it’s not blistered from friction. I hate to ask, Y/N, but did he hurt you in any other way? Anything that might need medical attention?”

She shakes her head. “No. Nothing I can think of. It hurts to move my entire body, though, I don’t know what I did.”

“You were stabbed, you’ve been beaten, you’ve been raped,” he points out under his breath. “Your body’s been through a lot. I can get you some ibuprofen and water if you’d like. But you’ll need to take it easy for a bit.” He brushes his thumb over the stitches and she gasps, squeezing her eyes shut. “Shit. Sorry, Y/N. Just wanna make sure they’re actually doing their job.”

“It’s fine,” she breathes. “It just really hurts. I can’t believe I got myself into this mess.”

“You’re not to blame here,” he reasons, letting her shirt fall back down. “I just wish you would have gotten out sooner. That’s a long time to stay in a situation like that.”

“How long were you in your situation?” she asks. “Unless you don’t want to share. I don’t want to cause a bad mood.”

He laughs, short and soft, but it doesn’t touch his eyes. “Six years.” Still bitter. That was six years he won’t ever get back, six years of pain and suffering. He laughs at it, though, because if he doesn’t, he’ll probably punch the wall or cry. Or both.

“Damn.”

“Yeah.” He sighs. “His name was Jack. Hit me, said he loved me, I forgave him, and the cycle started over. I tried to leave but he would always beg me to stay. And then, after six years, he pulled a gun on me.”

“I’m sorry.”

He shrugs. “Don’t be.” He plays it cool, but the echo of a gunshot rings in his ears. His jaw clenches. Bucky knows he’s not there, but he suddenly feels the burn of a bullet in his thigh. The memory is forced away—he can deal with it tomorrow, or maybe the day after. As for now, he’s trying to help someone else.

“Why six years, though? You didn’t have anywhere to go?”

“No. And no one believes a bisexual in a same-sex relationship. Not many people care about fags.”

“Don’t say that,” she scolds. “Don’t use that word to talk about yourself. And don’t say it in my brother’s apartment, either, I don’t want that word under his roof.”

“Why?”

Her face grows warm and, despite him being bisexual, she doesn’t want to out herself. “He’s bi, and he doesn’t need that shit. He got enough of it when he came out,” she lies. She prays it’ll never be mentioned, because Steve most certainly is straight, but she doesn’t want to cause an issue anymore. Brock hated that side of her. She cocks her head, watching as Bucky dabs something soothing on the burns from the rope. Where Brock’s hands were once rough and bruising, Bucky’s are comfortable and soothing. Her nerves don’t flare up at his touch. “I’m sorry that happened to you. I’m sorry it was harder for you to get out.”

“It’s not all bad,” he mumbles. “And I think you’re the first person to hear that and not say something backhandedly homophobic. So thank you.”

“I learned a lot from Steve,” she lies easily. “I was probably the worst ally there for a while. You’re getting me in my prime, Bucky. Oh, I meant to ask, what kind of name is Bucky, anyways?”

He laughs. “A nickname. James Buchanan Barnes, at your service.”

“And what do you do for a living?” she asks further. “You obviously know how to treat people.”

“I’m Tony Stark’s personal assistant,” he answers. The conversation relaxes more at that point. His fingers still move to address certain bruises and other minor wounds as he speaks. “You know him, right? Iron Man? Billionaire, part-time superhero, full-time asshole?”

It’s her turn to laugh. “Yeah, kind of hard to miss. He’s up Steve’s ass for paintings. I guess seven Steve Rogers originals aren’t enough for his grand tower.”

“Yeah, well, hell of a commissioner.”

“I don’t understand, though, how does that relate to your nursely skills?”

“Tony is very stubborn,” he answers, wrapping her leg in gauze and binding it. “He doesn’t like to visit the medical staff after a mission, so Pepper set me up with some supplies and told me to have at it. I’ve been patching him up for four years now.”

“Wow.” She leans forward to inspect his handy work. “Did he know about Steve?”

Bucky shakes his head. “That was a while ago. I mean, the worst of it happened within the first three months of my job. I thought I was going to be fired because I was suddenly in the hospital and I couldn’t call in sick or give any explanation. When Tony found out, he helped me press charges, get a restraining order, all of that.”

“So,” she begins, eyebrows raised, “you’re saying I need to find a cool billionaire to work for and that’ll solve all my problems?”

“More or less, yeah,” he jokes.

“Easy.”

Bucky stands and admires his work. She’s propped in bed awkwardly, but he remembers he’s just a stranger, and his welcome would be worn out if anything was done past his medical abilities. He’s gathering his things as he wraps up the conversation. “I’ll send Steve in, okay? Leave your leg wrapped for a little bit, get a shower in the evening, I would recommend cool water, but let him help you. You’re really hurt. If you don’t listen to your brother, I’m making him carry you to the hospital. Got it?”

“Yes, sir,” she responds sarcastically. “Thank you, though. It means a lot. Sorry for taking up so much of your time.”

His place is swapped with Steve, who comes in with an ice pack and a plate of pancakes. “Hey, figured you’d be hungry.”

“Starving.” She grins at him. “Did you sleep okay out there? You didn’t have to give me your bed, you doofus, I would have been perfectly fine in your comfy recliner.”

Steve sets the plate on her lap. His switch was flipped last night and never turned back, so he’s in watchdog mode. Everything makes him nervous—does his sister have enough pillows? Enough to eat? Does she need some water? Of course, he forgot water! Ugh, he curses himself! His fingers pick nervously at the hem of his shirt, unsure and so on edge. She notices, and with a mouthful of pancakes, says, “Please sit down. You’re being mother hen again and it’s going to drive you mad.”

“Well—“

“Did you eat this morning?”

No. He didn’t. He was, and still is, too damn worried. Their dad left shortly after she was born and their mom died just two days before Y/N’s twentieth birthday. Everything was left up to Steve: the worrying, the smothering, the protecting, the tear-wiping. She’s all he has left in this world--besides friends--and he’s afraid of losing her. He came too close yesterday to that, and his stomach’s been in knots and rejecting everything he wants to eat.

She picks up a pancake with her finger and thumb, folding it like a taco, and hands it to him. “It’d make me feel better if you ate.”

He accepts the food, and he nibbles at it.

Eating feels so strange to her. It’s usually done quickly and while doing a million other things all at once; to sit and breathe, to enjoy her meal, it’s odd but nice. “I’m going to relax today. Bucky said if I don’t, you have to take me to the hospital, and that’s some bull shit. But, my entire body hurts like hell so I think twenty-four hours should suffice.”

“You probably should take it easy for a week.”

“That’s a bit dramatic,” she snorts. “I need to find a job so I can get out of your hair.”

“I don’t mind you being in my hair.” Steve chews and swallows a small bite of pancake, but she doesn’t answer, so he continues. “Look, I know you’re stressed about real-world problems, and I understand. Usually that would be a problem. But as of now, I have more than enough resources to help you take a breather.”

“What do you mean? Did you hit the lottery?”

He doesn’t answer. Her face lights up, jaw slacks, and her fork is dropped. “Steve! Did you win the fucking lottery?”

“It’s not much, but yeah.”

“How much?”

“After taxes, it was like, four million. Like I said--”

“It’s not much?” she demands. “Jesus, Steve! You can buy so much paint with that. That’s amazing.”

“Well, important things first,” Steve says. “We’ll get you a bed and turn my studio into your bedroom.”

“I’m not going to take up your space.”

“You’re staying. You don’t have anywhere else to go and I’m not going to let you live on my couch.”

She groans. “Why not? I don’t want you to get rid of your studio! Where are you gonna paint?”

He shrugs. “I’ll find space. Maybe I’ll have to section off the living room, rearrange a bit, ya know?”

She wants to say more, to fight back, but he’s right about everything. She needs this. There’s nowhere else for her to go and she needs to get back on her feet. A sigh leaves her lips. “You’re right. I’m sorry, Steve.”

“You have nothing to be sorry for.” He feels glad she’ll live with him, happy to be able to keep an eye on her. It’s enough to make him smile.

Life slows down for a while. She stays in bed for two days, which breaks her heart because Steve has to sleep on the couch because of her, but the third day brings changes. She takes baby steps out to the living room, clinging to the wall as she does so. Her body, she thinks, is broken. It won’t move properly and her knees are stiff as hell. 

“You’ve been in bed for two days,” Steve reminds. “Go easy on yourself, okay?”

Sam visits. He drops by with Chinese takeout and a gallon of ice cream—Perry’s chocolate, her favorite, because he knows her so well. Sam Wilson is a living blessing for both of the Rogers siblings. He’s an amazing friend, a funny dude, someone that would back you in a fight without a second thought. That’s why he’s allowed to plop in unannounced and put his feet on the coffee table. He sits beside her and pulls out chicken broccoli with white rice for her, wordlessly, because he’s Sam fucking Wilson and he knows how to handle everything life throws at him.

“Thank you, Sammy,” she says, and if she’s crying at how nice he is, neither of them mention it.

Steve leaves the next day and returns with Sam and a bed. It’s a queen, with a box spring and so many damn pillows because her brother knows not when to stop. Sam’s frustrated too, because he can’t secure the fitted sheet on top.

“I can help,” she offers. “It’s my bed, after all. Steve, help me up. I want to fix the sheets before Sam throws them out the window.”

“I can do this,” Sam huffs towards the sheets. The bedding Steve had picked out is white and gray, simple and minimalist, and she likes it. There’s a splash of peach with a throw pillow and the curtains; it’s a soft color that makes her feel warm and at ease. The gray down comforter is soft on her skin, smooth and fresh, nothing like the bloodied quilts at Brock’s apartment.

“You look a bit rough,” Steve notices, eyeing carefully the way she holds her weight. “Want me to go get Bucky?”

Shaking her head won’t do any good, but she does it anyway. “No. I’m fine. I think I just need some ice cream. That’ll help, right? Alright, Sammy, help me out to the living room. Steve can fight with the sheets.”

Bucky is brought over anyways. The handsome yet sleep-deprived neighbor sets his basket down and studies her body. She’s relaxed this time because Sam gave her ice cream. “Where all did he tie the rope?”

“Around my ankles, my legs, my wrists….” She looks confused. “I thought that was it.”

“I think he just really pulled at your body.” Bucky’s fingers trail up her leg, traveling between the ankle and knee to find any problems. “You’re sore, nothing major, but your body wasn’t used to it, so it’s messing with you.”

“How much longer am I gonna be a basket case?”

“Depends. Is the ER still out of the question?”

“Of course.”

“Then I don’t know. I don’t know for sure.” He stops, pulling his hand back and pursing his lips. “How are your shoulders? I didn’t check them last time.”

“My right one really hurts. I can’t sleep on my side.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“It wasn’t tied or stabbed, I didn’t think it mattered.”

Bucky stands to feel her shoulder. He pushes the sleeve of her t-shirt back and allows his fingers to roam across her skin. “Shit. It’s dislocated. Okay, this is why you need to speak up.”

“Can you fix it?”

“It’s gonna hurt like hell.”

Steve groans. For such a strong man, he’s tired of seeing his sister hurt. She shouldn’t have to handle all of this pain. Still, he makes his way to her and holds her awkwardly, as close as he can while Bucky gets into position, preparing himself and Y/N.

“Count of three, okay?”

“Sure.”

Bucky doesn’t make it past one. She lets out a scream and buries herself into Steve’s shoulder, eyes already leaking with tears. It’s heartbreaking. Bucky can still remember having his shoulder popped into place; he remembers the cigarettes on his skin, the unphased nurses, the fuzziness his brain felt after Jack had roofied him. Memories swarmed him. He looks at her, Steve’s sister, and sees a younger Bucky staring back at him. She’s just as broken and miserable as he was, and they’re both desperate to be stronger.

“Can I check the other one?” Bucky whispers, patting her shoulder.

Steve wants to say no. She, however, turns and nods, a zombie, steadying herself as she blankly stares past the coffee table. Luckily, the left is fine. Nothing’s wrong on that side except for the stab wound. Silent tears track down to her chin, and Bucky decides that’s enough for today.

“I’ll check in tomorrow, okay?” he murmurs helplessly, as if begging for forgiveness. “Please keep drinking water. It’ll help, I promise.”

“Thank you,” she mumbles. She catches his eyes—she means it. Her voice is weak but she manages to give emotion. “Thank you,” she sniffles again. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Bucky.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's a bit shorter, but still good :)

Steve wants to kill, and it’s for more than selfish reasons. He rolls his eyes at his inner monologue—lifted from Y/N’s favorite movie, Heathers, and he rests his head in his hands. Brock walks free after stabbing her, burning her, raping her, dislocating her shoulder, and she’s reduced to a crying mess in his bed. He sleeps at the foot of her bed that night, by her feet, out of fear of something going wrong.

It’s bullshit. Steve wants to put Brock in a cell or a coffin, but what would that solve? The damage is already done. His sister is puking her guts up in the middle of the night, sore from forced intercourse and trembling with fear. He comforts her and tucks her back into bed, but she sobs for another hour before finally drifting back to sleep.

He shares coffee with Bucky the next morning, resting at the counter tops. “You’re doing the best you can,” Bucky tells him. “I know it’s hard, and I’m really sorry, but this is all you can do. Don’t be so hard on yourself.”

“I’m afraid she’s going to get depressed.”

“You’re going to end up down hill first.” Bucky pours himself another cup of coffee, adding a splash of milk and a very little bit of sugar. “You’re driving yourself insane, you need to ease up. She’s going to be fine.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do,” he reminds softly. “But I didn’t have a Steve Rogers to help me heal. She does. I’m fine, she’ll be fine. You’re too hard on yourself.”

“She was stabbed, Bucky.”

“I was shot.”

“And I’d hover over you like a mother hen too if I knew you then. This is insane. That’s my sister, she’s all I have left of my family.” Steve’s heart is beating rapidly in his chest, on fire yet cold with fear, but Bucky’s hand pats his and he feels calmer.

“Calm down,” Bucky orders. “You need to calm down. She’s healing.”

“Why couldn’t I protect her?”

Bucky’s hands slip back as he sighs. “Because she didn’t want you to find out. Do you know how hard it is to look someone in the eye and tell them how weak you were? I’m surprised she told you everything the first day.”

Bucky thinks of how he was around Stark and Ben Pepper; they begged to be trusted, to help him, but Bucky bottled everything up and let it sit.

“It hurts to know that she couldn’t come to me,” Steve sighs. “I know I sound selfish and wrong, but… fuck, Bucky, I would have done everything to protect her.” Steve looks at him, jaw set. “I’m sorry. This must be annoying for you to hear, too. I didn’t know you…” He trails off for a moment, finding his words as his coffee swirls around his cup. “I wish I could have offered some more support. I mean, we’ve been friends for years, even if we weren’t that close. You’re too kind to suffer on your own.”

It’s Bucky’s turn to be upset; his eyes fall to the mug in his hands, lower lip tucking under his teeth. “I don’t think I could ever tell you those things. I… I’d been in so many fights, and those six years were by far the worst.”

“You do my have I tell me now, or even ever. I just want you to know that if you need to talk, I’m here.”

Bucky pauses. The air around them is suffocating him, robbing him of air and leaving him blinking back tears. “I… I was like Y/N,” he murmurs. “I didn’t know I was raped until… fuck, I mean, I knew I didn’t want it and I knew he hurt me so bad but I was in denial. I thought, well, technically, it was, but I eventually said yes. It doesn’t work like that, though, and I don’t think I’ll ever be able to see another man naked again.”

“I’m sorry you had to go through that, Buck,” Steve says gently. “Did you talk to a doctor?”

Bucky shakes his head and wipes his eyes on the back of his hand. “Nah. There wasn’t a point.” Before the conversation could continue, Bucky stands and wipes his hands on his pants. “Thanks for the coffee, but I—“

“You’re only leaving because you’re uncomfortable,” Steve points out. “Look, take the mug with you, bring it back tomorrow. Get some rest, Buck, I’m not here to force anything out of you.”

He’s warm. Partially from the anxiety, but also from the butterflies in his gut from Steve’s generosity. True to his word Steve turns and walks away, giving Bucky the space he so desperately needs. Today was huge—he acknowledged what happened to him for the first time in six years. He hadn’t even told Stark that part. It was probably awkward to tell your boss that, anyways, but in terms of what he knew of Bucky’s time with Steve, it was a big deal. His hands hold the mug and he leaves, walking out feeling lighter and he heart, and heavy in his lower spine, as if he was reliving the week of soreness after the event.

Y/N wakes up sobbing in the middle of the night. She’s been sleeping in her own room the past three nights—she needed to gain her independence back and Steve’s back was killing him from sleeping at the foot of his own bed—but tonight is bad. Her nightmare was so real and too hurtful that she scrambles to get out of bed, tearing through her stitches in the process. The gasp that sneaks between her teeth pierces the air, making her cover her mouth and pray Steve slept through her little ordeal.

There’s blood on the bed, on the floor, and fuck, now her hands are covered. The wound is open, and maybe she should go to the hospital. Steve would help her. Or maybe… would Bucky be awake? No. He works for Stark, he’s probably asleep and tired from a day of dealing with him.

“Y/N?”

Shit. She tries to pull herself up but her side stings. Fire engulfs her mind, memories too close, like a hand on a hot stove—a sob rips through her and sends waves of agony through her.

The door opens, the lights flicker on—and there’s Brock. No. This isn’t…

“What the fuck are you doing?” he snaps, advancing towards her.

She’s suddenly not in her room at Steve’s apartment. There’s blue everywhere, a boring white, beige—no. She escaped this. The worn out bed sits against the wall, piles of clothes scattered and the script she was reading is in the trash.

“I own your ass,” he hisses. “You think Steve is gonna save you? Huh? A whore like you?”

“You don’t know my brother,” she cries back. “I’m sick of you treating me like this! I’m not a toy, Brock, stop being such a dick.”

Brock’s fists swing. She wakes up, actually wakes up, with a sob—it’s like deja vu. It’s exactly how her dream began but this time, Steve’s there. He cups her face and pulls her towards him, arms holding her close. “I got you,” he mumbles. “No one’s gonna hurt you, I’m here, Y/N.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It gets pretty heavy and a little graphic in the beginning, just to worn you! Please be safe. (TW for self-terminated pregnancy, abuse, mental health issues, suicidal thoughts as means of escaping an abusive relationship, and panic attacks.)

Steve, because he can, likes to spend money. Stark wants another painting and pays twenty-percent up front, rent is paid for the next three months, and maybe it’s the way his sister is hobbling around the apartment looking for something to do, but the money is burning a hole in his pocket. It’s strange. He’s never had this much spare money. The lottery thing was a bit of a shock to him, because he barely played and when he did he picked shitty numbers, but this stroke of luck was something they both needed. And right now, he knew exactly what to do.

Steve opens his sister’s laptop, which he conveniently knows the password for—it’s their mother’s birthday—and looks through her search history. She loved to online shop. Well, it wasn’t really shopping. Just browsing, like she and Steve used to do back in the days. They’d find something so expensive and beautiful just to smile sadly at it and close the window, never to open it again. All he can think of is the locket she showed him. It was beautiful, too, a simple shape with a silvery finish. The silver turned out to be white gold, and the dollar signs Steve saw were doubled and tripled. The locket was no longer an option, and she knew that. It was deleted from the browser history the moment they saw it was no less than four-hundred dollars, and she didn’t look for anything else for another week.

There are no results from online window shopping, though, at least not this time. No. What Steve found wasn’t nearly as pleasant. Where there should be clothing websites and other online stores, there are Google searches with terrifying questions, morbid and miserable, fuck, and he could feel his heart grow heavy in his chest.

Easiest way to kill self.

What to do if you can’t leave an abusive relationship?

What if your family doesn’t believe you’re being abused?

How to self-terminate a pregnancy.

Can I fake my death to escape an abusive relationship?

How much bleach do I need to drink for it to be lethal?

Bleach vs laundry detergent dangers of ingesting.

Tears swell in Steve’s eyes before he registers they’re there. If she was suffering enough to consider ending her own life then he should have seen it. He should have known what she was going through, why she was hiding, why she was never her happy self on social media or why she looked so tired all the time. He scans the past searches again only to settle on the unwanted pregnancy one. He gets so incredibly angry. Brock hurt her in such a way and to top it all off, gave her an unwanted child, something her body would have to deal with—Steve closes the laptop and turns away, tears falling freely now. Before him is Y/N; groggy with sleep, hair a mess, obviously a robot until she sees her brother’s face and the laptop behind him.

“What are you doing?” she asks.

“Trying to surprise you.” Steve stands up, and for just a second, he thinks he sees Y/N cower. Her flinch is worse than him stabbed. “I thought I’d get an idea of things you’d want, surprise you with gifts to lift your spirits but instead I come across your search history.”

“You shouldn’t have been looking.”

It takes everything in his power not to continue crying. His eyes are still wet but he holds it back by some grace of god. “How much bleach do I have to drink for it to be lethal?”

She shakes her head firmly. “Stop. I don’t want to hear you bring it up, okay? I can’t do this right now.”

“What about terminating your own pregnancy, huh?” he demands. “Is that fine to talk about?” When Y/N doesn’t answer, too frozen with fear, he wipes his eyes and looks past her. “I thought I was done finding out how much he put you through, but there’s more. I’m not mad at you. I’m really not, I love you Y/N, and I wish you’d realize that you could talk to me about anything.”

Y/N crosses her arms but she shakes. “And tell you what? You know what he did, Steve, I can’t say that again.”

“You told me what he did the night you came here,” he points out. “You never told me the extent of it. I’m trying not to pressure you but I’m going to live in fear that I’ll wake up one morning and find your corpse.”

“Brock thought that if he put a baby in me that I wouldn’t leave,” Y/N yells, suddenly snapping and jerking from the force of her explosion. “And I thought it would keep me there, too. I tried to call you one night but you didn’t answer, and I never got a call back, and I just assumed that you didn’t want to hear from me anymore. So I gave up fighting him. I let Brock knock me up and I pretended everything was alright. But I saw you at a nearby coffee shop, went home, and I lost my mind. I ended up killing the baby and Brock broke my wrist.”

More tears come as Steve remembers. He got the call, he knows he did...he was on a date with Peggy. The ringing phone was dismissed as he pulled out a seat for Peggy and, even though it was only a coffee date, he treated her so lavishly because he loved her. Peggy had been an interesting catch and in his dull life, he wanted to keep her around and treat her to the nicer things. At the end of the night the phone call was never returned. He forgot about it, like a terrible brother. To think that if he answered her call, she would have been safe sooner.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispers. “Y/N… I’m so fucking sorry.” He steps closer to her, reaching out to her, but she doesn’t like that. Her body flinches back again and she chokes on a sob. “Y/N?”

“Please don’t touch me,” she begs. “I’m so sorry, Stevie, just please don’t…. Please don’t.” She’s shaking so bad that her entire body feels like it’s mushy, a jumble of mashed and nothing and--she gaps and pushes herself against a wall as she cries. “I’m sorry,” she cries out, nearly shaking.

Everything replays in her mind, and she truly remembers everything. Brock’s soft grunts in her ear as she let him fuck her, every thrust

Steve runs out of the apartment as fast as he can. His bare feet hit the gross hallway floors but he doesn’t stop until he reaches Bucky’s door. He pounds as loud as he can. “Bucky! James! Hey, James, please, I need your help!”

Bucky finds Y/N pressed into a corner and breathing hard. His heart nearly breaks right there, but why? He feels for her, because he knows panic attacks are the worst, but at the same time, he trembles at the sight of her. All he can think of is the way she looks like him, shaking, coughing, scared, thinking she’s under the same roof as her abuser. It’s all too much but he swallows it down and kneels beside her.

“Can you match my breathing?” he whispers, holding his hand open as invitation. She’s free to choose how she wants to react, but no matter what, Bucky wants her to know comfort is closer than she thinks.

She takes a shaky breath and grabs his hand.

The next time she sees Bucky, she’s locked out of Steve’s apartment. She stepped out to grab a bagel—Steve left her a ten dollar bill and told her not to stay pent up in the apartment all day—but realized very quickly that her brother didn’t give her a key. It also doesn’t help that she really hasn’t talked to Steve since the panic attack. How do you look your brother in the eyes after he knows your lowest point? Steve felt pain for her, but all she felt was guilt and shame. Brock really did bring out the ugliest side of her, and she will never be the same.

Was this her punishment for trying to move on with her life? Her hands wrap around the doorknob, pulling and twisting and pushing desperately, but there’s no budge. It’s locked, and she must continue the show on a different stage. Tears prick the edge of her waterline, but at the same time, there is no use in crying, no matter how helpless she feels.

She weighs her options. There’s waiting, but she doesn’t know when her brother is coming back. The bagel was good but not good enough to offset her anxiety, she thinks, and then looks down the hall. The next door over is Bucky’s, she assumes. She hasn’t been out much, so she could be wrong. Her feet move before she can think of what she’s doing. She does an awkward walk to Bucky’s door and knocks, but comes face to face with a blond man struggling to keep his dog from running out.

“Hey, what’s up?” he asks casually.

“Oh, I, sorry—I must, uh, I think I have the wrong room. I’m sorry.”

“Slow down,” he says. “What did you say?”

“I—fuck, I’m sorry, I’m—“

The blond man holds up a finger, suddenly very panicked, and turns around to yell for Bucky at the top of his lungs. Bucky appears, and the man begins to move his hands rapidly and—oh. Sign language. Wait, sign language?

Bucky nods and peeks through the opening of the door. “Hey. Sorry, that’s Clint, my roommate. He’s deaf, you kind of freaked him out with how fast you talk, he’s not the best at lipreading.”

“I’m sorry,” she says, “I wish I would have known. I know sign.”

“Really?”

She nods slightly as she fiddles with her fingers. “Yeah. I’m actually certified fluent in a bunch of languages. It’s nothing special, but, uh, yeah. Sorry, that’s lame and has nothing to do with the fact I freaked out your roommate.”

“Nah, he’s cool, just anxious. Oh!” He lightly smacks his forehead in a “duh” manner. “Did you need something? I almost forgot you didn’t come over just to bother my roommate.”

If her face could turn into a rainbow of embarrassment, it would. But alas, she stands there with a scrunched face and tries not to sound as stupid as she feels. “I left the apartment for fresh air but Steve didn’t leave me a key.”

“Say no more.” He swings the door open and steps aside. “Clint and I are playing Mario Kart, which you are very welcome to join.” He turns to Clint and signs, He finger-spells her name, but Clint doesn’t assign a sign-name just yet.

She steps in and signs, < I would say yes but I’ve never played Mario kart.>

Clint gasps.

Bucky snorts a laugh. “Y/N, do you want anything to drink before we begin? It can get pretty intense. You’ve never known fear until you see Clint drive on Rainbow Road.”

She shakes her head. “No, thanks, but I’ll have you know that I never place anything but first on rainbow road.” She signs what she said for Clint, who laughs and narrows his eyes, signing back,

She’s...happy? It’s strange to feel this way. Her stitches are still intact, the black eye hasn’t completely faded yet but it’s getting better, and her body isn’t sore all the time from the stretching. Her shoulder even feels better. Now, she sits between Bucky and Clint, playing a video game, and it’s stupid. It’s fun and dumb and--it’s amazing to let her hair down, to have no anxiety or responsibilities and to act as if this, playing Mario Kart with these two dorks, is the only thing she has to worry about.

Clint sets his controller on his lap and turns towards Y/N and Bucky.

Bucky signed back.

She smiles and signs, too.

Bucky’s quick to sign yes, but Clint groans, signing no over and over again.

The pizza is half mushrooms, half pepperoni, and she picks out of both sides because she’s just happy to be there and eat something so damn good. The games continue, Clint loses, she wins, and they attempt to make cookies with what they can find around the apartment.

Bucky takes the lead on that one; he’s precise and focused when it comes to the preparation of food. He’s used to eyeballing the ingredients, taking small risks and dancing around Rebecca, who desperately wanted to help. Little Becca, small and sick, sitting on the counter and asking to lick the beaters after Bucky stirs the batter.

Instead, it’s Y/N that leans forward, leaning on Bucky’s arm and smiles. Her fingers dig into the bowl, scraping against the cool metal until content with the amount of cookie dough she takes. She pops her fingers in her mouth, sucks the dough off, and smiles. “I love cookie dough,” she says. “Can I lick the spoon?” She sticks a chocolate chip to Bucky’s nose with the stickiness of the dough and laughs.

Clint’s groaning grabbing his own spoon to dig into the bowl. he signs before digging in.

She doesn’t see the words, so she has nothing to say. Instead, she smiles at Bucky and digs her fingers back in. “Thanks,” she says before turning away to see Lucky, Clint’s mutt that she wants to take for her own. “Tell me when the cookies are done! I’m gonna snuggle this fur baby in the meantime.”

She ends up on the couch, Lucky resting in her lap despite being too big to be a lap dog. Lucky whines happily and pants. Clint gives him attention and usually Lucky can sense Bucky’s anxiety and will join him in bed on a bad night, but he is acting like a neglected dog getting affection for the first time. Maybe her belly rubs were better than theirs; Bucky watches Lucky roll over and groan as she pets his belly. Pure bliss. Y/N is happy too, and Bucky thinks about telling Steve to adopt a dog for her.

There fun is interrupted by a knock at the door. She jumps in her seat, Lucky suddenly alert and tense. The dog is ready to protect her, the stranger that appeared for no other reason than to scratch his belly, and he won’t lose her. Y/N stills against the couch when Bucky stands and smiles, heading towards the door.

Steve’s on the other side. His hands are in his hair, pulling, an attempt to ground himself yet he’s already on the brink of tears. “I can’t find Y/N,” he breathes. Panic bubbles in him, heart fluttering to the max. “Have you seen her? I don’t know where to look, I don’t think she’d go back to Brock, but I don’t know where to start and--”

“She’s in here, Steve,” Bucky cuts him off. Steve runs to her, past his neighbors and straight to the couch, but Lucky doesn’t like that. He stands and barks at her brother; his back is arched and teeth are bared--he’s protective of her and it makes Steve smile despite the tears in his eyes. Bucky yells from the doorway, “Lucky! Down!”

“It’s okay, baby,” she cooes, petting Lucky’s chin, “that’s Steve. He’s my brother, he’s okay.” Kisses seem to be Lucky’s off-switch. Her lips press to his head and he sits, hesitant, but calm and quiet. Steve hugs her and sits beside her. “Sorry to scare you,” she says, “I went out for a bagel but I didn’t have a key--”

“I’m such a dumbass,” he groans. “I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be,” she laughs. “We had pizza and Bucky’s making cookies.”

“We can set up and fourth controller,” Bucky offers, “if you want to play Mario Kart with us? Clint’s getting his ass kicked, but it’s fun.” He signs as he speaks, and Clint eventually yells, “Hey!” in protest.

Steve stays; the socializing is good for his sister, he can tell. It’s nice to see her out of the small apartment and out of her thoughts. She doesn’t play Mario Kart with them, but instead, lies on the couch with her head in Clint’s lap, her feet propped up on Steve’s legs, and Lucky lying on her chest. The dog was far too big and kind of squished her, but the smile on her face was worth it.

“Careful,” Bucky says, signing as he goes, “Nat might get jealous to see you with another pretty girl snuggled up.”

Y/N laughs, and Clint rolls his eyes. “Yeah, like she’s gonna be the fiery red-head type. She’d just pry Y/N off of me and I’d be jealous.”

Steve responds and raises his hands to sign, too, “Red-head? Nat won’t have to steal, Y/N will gladly go with her.”

Clint laughs, but Y/N notices the way Bucky gives her an odd look. Her face flushes with heat--she forgot she lied to Bucky about her sexuality and threw Steve under the bus as something he wasn’t in a moment of panic. Steve is so fucking straight it hurts sometimes. But Y/N… she can remember crying when she came out because her mother didn’t like it. She eventually came around, but the screaming match was something she’ll never forget.

Brock, on the other hand, hated it. She blinks away the memories of his hand around her throat and his contained erection rutting against her hip, a threat of what he’d do to “make her straight” as if it would “cure” her.

Bucky senses the discomfort and jokes about something else, to which the other men happily babble about, and Y/N is left burrowing her face into Lucky’s fluffy coat. Peace swept over them, happiness apparent in the room. Bucky nearly burns the cookies but it’s almost worth it to see the way she gravitates towards Bucky.

Of course, she would, and Steve recognizes that. Bucky knows what she’s been through; the assault, the nightmares, the hole in their chest that takes so fucking long to fill. Steve watches from the corner of his eye as she takes a cookie and smiles as Bucky aims to pull it away. She has a friend and it’s so damn relieving. Steve sneaks a glance up from the screen once more to see Bucky handing Y/N a cookie without teasing, and the gleam in her eye makes Steve smile.

“You lost!” Clint yells, jumping up and punching a fist in the air. “Fuck you, Rogers! Pay attention next time! Okay, that’s out of my system, I’m sorry about the explosion.”

Steve laughs it off and teases him back, glancing back up just to see Y/N hoist herself onto the counter and let Bucky stand close to her, his elbow bumping against her knee as they talked over cookies and the glass of milk he must have poured when Steve wasn’t looking. He’s happy. His sister is taking baby step after baby step to rebuild her life and herself after Brock, and this is amazing progress in itself.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNING FOR THIS CHAPTER! Abuse, sexual harassment, blood, almost-stabbing. Please be careful!

It’s been two months. She’s still unemployed and miserable, wondering why no one will give her a chance, until one woman tells her straight up: “Brock Rumlow told anyone that would listen not to employ you. You’re not trustworthy, you’re a thief, and you’re not loyal. That was what he said, and I can’t take those chances.”

Her heart snaps in two from that comment. The lovely owner of the store continues to sweep up and act as if nothing happened, since nothing ever does. Brock not only blacklisted her from every fucking theater in New York, but now, the word is spreading and she isn’t even considered for minimum wage jobs. Y/N accepts defeat and turns to walk back home. She holds in tears, bottles them up as if her life depends on it. There is too much happening in her mind that she can’t think clearly. No job, no life, no credibility left–how is she going to help Steve? She can’t mooch off of his lottery money forever, not that she wants to now, since she didn’t win it. It’s his. Nothing is going right and it only gets worse, especially once she sees Brock out of the corner of her eye.

He’s walking beside her casually, matching her pace and facing forward. When she slows down, so does he, and when she speeds up, he mirrors her. This continues for three blocks, a subway ride, and it’s breaking her heart. Her breathing hitches in her throat when he steps closer, until their shoulders almost brush. Finally, he speaks. “I think you know what I’m capable of,” he says in a low voice. “Come back home.”

“I’m not yours anymore,” she tells him. She’s somehow confident that he’ll be too afraid to make a move in public, where so many eyes could catch them. He used to be so nice in public; whenever she felt unsafe she’d suggest a date, a nice dinner in a crowded restaurant, but he eventually caught on. Now, she walks beside him and hopes he’ll maintain his calm facade. “I’m not coming back.”

The air leaves her lungs as he grabs her wrist, spinning her around and forcing her to stop. She’s unable to say anything, fear swallowing her whole. Brock, however, has no problem finding his words. “I’m not asking you,” he growls. “That wasn’t a fucking question. We’re going back home, and you’re not going to run away from me.”

“Let go of me.”

“I’ll let go of you once we get–”

She twists unexpectedly, breaking free of his grasp and walking through the crowd. Her freedom is so close she can taste it. It’s there, out of reach, and suddenly, she’s pulled back towards him and shoved in an alleyway, against the brick exterior of a cafe, and his arm is pressed against her waist, fingers threatening to go lower. “You think you’re so damn slick,” he growls. “You don’t get to run away. You don’t get to be anything without me.”

“Let go of me,” she repeats, the waver in her voice causing him to laugh.

“So tough, little one. Really, you almost had me scared,” he mocks, grinning so wide his cheeks ache a bit. “Look at you.”

“I’ll scream,” she says, but she’s practically begging. His fingers fingers brush against her, so dangerously close to her sex, that it makes her choke on a sob. “Don’t touch me.”

“You liked it,” he growls lowly. His free hand wraps lightly around her neck, gently, as if to seduce her. “This is bringing back memories, isn’t it, baby? You like being tied up, you like to please, huh? I bet your pussy’s wet just thinking about it.”

“Don’t touch me,” she repeats, tears in her eyes. She’s so afraid, nearly humiliated from being in public, and she wishes she had someone to rescue her. She wishes Steve would appear out of nowhere, or Lucky would escape the apartment to fight Brock off. Lucky would make a good guard dog, she thinks, but the thought of being saved is interrupted by Brock, who unbuttons her jeans and leans against her.

“Get off of me,” she screams. The hand at her throat tightens, leaving her struggling to speak and breathe. She finally gathers the strength to knee him in the groin, but he doesn’t stop. Instead, at her outburst, he slaps her harshly in the face.

“You aren’t as tough as you think you are,” Brock hisses.

She spits in his face. “Go to hell,” she gasps, wiggling to break free. Her tears are still flowing, still present on her face, and she wishes she wasn’t so scared. She wishes she would fight back.

Brock punches her. He’s had enough. His hands release her, turning into fists to strike her, and he doesn’t stop. She tastes blood, and once her face is stinging in pain, he pulls a knife on her. She tries to scream, but nothing comes out. She’s terrified, barely healed from the last time, but now she would have a long two months of healing ahead of her again–if she survives. 

That’s when he’s torn from her, pulled away and quickly taken down, thrown into a headlock by a redhead, a stranger–black spots fade and flicker in her vision, but she can see the dog standing in front of her, tail up and back arched, growling angrily. She swallows, the taste of blood still lingering on her tongue, and reaches out weakly. “Lucky?” she asks in a raspy voice.

The dog is Lucky. Lucky turns to her, whimpering, nudging her beaten face gently with his wet nose. Clint appears, pushing Lucky to the side gently. “Hey, hey, stay with me.”

“I need to see Bucky,” she slurs. “Bucky will patch me up.”

“I can’t read your lips,” Clint says, his face scrunched up in panic. He holds her face and, tearing off a piece of his sleeve, begins to dab at the blood. “Can you sign?”

Her arms won’t work. She can’t raise them. She’s weak, too tired, and she catches sight of the redhead scaring Brock away. She looks to her, at the cute girl that came to her rescue. “I need to see Bucky,” she repeats to her, but she just crouches down beside her and pulls her into her arms. 

She nudges Clint to get his attention before speaking. “We need to get her to a hospital.”

“Doesn’t the tower have–”

“We still need transportation there.”

“I can’t afford hospitals,” Y/N whimpers.

Lucky whines and wiggles into the group to be close to her. Clint still dabs at her face. There’s blood on Lucky’s fur, but no one stops him. Her face is too tender. “Make the call,” Clint says. “We can’t wait too much longer.”

Her world fades to black.

When she wakes up, she’s in a hospital. Her entire face burns but the fear of debt hurts worse, tearing a hole into her stomach and making her whine. Blinks once, twice. Then, in the corner of the room, she sees the redhead from before, sleeping, and Clint, who is asleep with his head in her lap. At their feet is Lucky, who is wearing a vest; he becomes alert when she stirs, repositioning to get comfortable. Lucky jumps up on the bed, whining and licking her face until she gasps and he pulls away. Tail between his legs, he knows he hurt her.

“It’s okay, Lucky,” she mumbles, raising her stinging arms to pet him. “It’s okay. I’m okay. Lay down.”

Lucky curls up against her feet, chin over her ankles, and she feels safe. Suddenly, finally, safe. The white walls almost sting her eyes. She’s close to drifting back to sleep when the redhead wakes up and sighs softly. “Sorry,” she says, breaking Y/N from sleepiness, “we always take naps around this time. We didn’t want to leave you, though. Your brother isn’t answering the phone.”

“Why’d you bring me here?” she asks sadly. “I can’t afford to be here, I need you to get me out.”

“I would if I could, but like I said, your brother isn’t answering his phone. Where will you go?”

“I have a key to the apartment. I’ll take the subway, I’m sure I’ll be fine.”

“Just relax,” she tells her, refusing to acknowledge what she just heard. Subway? She’ll be fine? The redhead pushes on, ignoring the other girl’s ignorance. “I’m Nat by the way.”

“Y/N,” she answers. “Now, please, I need to get out of–”

“Why wasn’t I alerted about this beforehand?” a voice yells from the hall. “Tell Emily to get her shit together when Nat tries to call me. I’m an assistant, it’s literally my job to take get these phone calls as soon as they’re through.”

“Calm down, Barnes, open the damn door.”

The door swings open and Bucky storms into a room; dapper looking, professional, even, wearing a nice suit and his hair back in a bun, a wisp or two falling out. He sees her, sitting in the hospital bed with Lucky curled up around her feet, and he wants to scream. Before she can say anything, James takes a deep breath and tries to calm his voice. “I need his full name, where he lives, and what kind of weapons he owns.” It’s his professional voice, and it shocks her a bit. He’s red in the face and asking as if she’s a client–he’s trying desperately to hold everything together. 

The man behind him is already tired of him. “Barnes–”

Nat rolls her eyes, looking up from Clint. “Just call the damn police, Bucky, there’s no need for this.”

Y/N doesn’t look at him anymore. She lets her fingers rest in Lucky’s fur. The sensation grounds her, reminds her that she’s human and that she’s alive. “It’s fine, Bucky. It’s not a big deal.”

“Stop protecting him,” he demands. “Full name, address, and weapons. Now.”

“He’s already told every employer not to hire me,” she says as calmly as she can. Of course, it backfires, and her voice cracks slightly. “I’m not going to do anything to provoke him. I’m fine, Nat and Clint got to me before he could hurt me.”

Bucky’s eyes grew wide. “He punched you repeatedly in the face. He almost stabbed you. What do you mean ‘before he could hurt you’? Are you out of your goddamn mind?”

Nat scowls at him, ready to push Clint off of her to force Bucky out of the room. “Don’t yell at her, you’re just making it worse,” she says lowly, a threat masked by an even voice.

The man behind him pulls at his shoulder a bit. “Buck-o, dude, I’ll stick a suit on him. I’ll track him, we don’t need to stress her out for information.” Looking closer, Y/N realizes she’s in the presence of Tony Stark. He’s shorter than Bucky and wears a pair of thick-framed glasses on his face, but he doesn’t act like he’s in a strange place. He also isn’t standing by idly. He turns to tap against the wall, and suddenly, there’s a hologram, and he’s typing more.

“Does Steve even know where you’re at right now?” he demands, not paying any attention to Nat. “Does he know you’re in the med bay?”

She looks around. “Wait. This isn’t a hospital?”

Bucky blinks. “Y/N,” he says, almost pained, “I’m trying to talk to you, and this is what you’re worried about?”

“You said med bay,” she points out. “I thought it was a hospital. Is that a fancier word?”

“Technically,” Tony says without looking back.

“I can’t afford this.”

“You need to sit back and let me help you,” Bucky interrupts, rushing towards your side to keep you from getting out of bed. “Listen to me. We’re in Stark’s tower, you don’t owe anything, so don’t worry about the money. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“Now. Please. Tell give me his information and we can stop this from happening.”

Y/N wants to answer but Tony steps away and lets the holograms dim, then fade. He brings his hand to rest on Bucky’s shoulder again, pulling it back, a little harder than before. “Okay, Barnes, I think you need to get back to your office.”

“Let me help you,” Bucky continues, swallowing the lump in his throat. “I can help you but I need the information.”

“Stop pestering her.”

She opens her mouth. “I promise, I’m okay. You don’t need to do anything–”

“Tell me,” he begs.

“I’m okay.”

“But you’re not,” he says, and his voice cracks. “It’s like looking at myself right before he nearly killed me and you’re not alright at all. I didn’t have anyone that gave two shits about me but I can help you, Y/N, I really can.”

The hand on his shoulder is softer now. “James, buddy, let’s get you back to your office, okay?”

She sits there and watches the stranger pull at him. Lucky shifts to comfort him, to lick at her tears and Bucky grits his teeth. Everything’s fine. His heart rate picks up and, pushing the other man aside and ignoring Nat’s pleas, he runs out of the room.

Steve gets a call in the middle of his date. And another. And another. Three more until finally he sighs and wants to crush his phone. It isn’t his sister, so he ignores it. It’s been so long since he’d been on a date, since he took time for himself instead of working himself into the ground. Peggy is beautiful; she sits in front of him with her brown curls brushing her shoulder and a bright red smile on her face.

They’ve been seeing each other for a few months, introduced to Steve by Bucky and left to blossom into something so damn beautiful. He planned to tell his sister about it, as it was getting pretty serious, but then she stumbled on beaten half to death and well… it slipped his mind. He likes her so much, his heart feels at home with her sometimes. She brings him flowers to paint and leaves lipstick marks on his cheek and smiles at them happily.

“You can get that if it’s important,” she says, fingers tapping at the side of a cup.

“I would, but it’s not my sister,” he tells her. His fingers quickly make to turn the ringer off and slip the phone back in his pocket. “You have my undivided attention.”

“How’s she doing?” Peggy continues. “Is she still acting? We should get tickets to see her next show.”

Steve doesn’t know how to answer. He likes Peggy, he really does, and he walks on thin ice–so he thinks–when they talk. If he messes it up he’ll never date again, never find a man or woman as breathtaking and kind as Peggy.

When he doesn’t answer, she continues, pressing on to ensure him it’s okay to answer truthfully. “Is everything alright? I don’t mean to intrude, but you have me a bit worried, here.”

Steve shakes his head slightly. “No, it’s fine. She just got out of an abusive relationship. It took her two and a half years before she could finally escape that, it’s terrifying to know the last bit of family I have was almost taken from me.”

“Is she alright now, at least?” Peggy asks. She’s very concerned; her brows draw together and her head tilts in the slightest way. Her shoulders lean forward, towards him, like a magnet only kept apart because of the table between them. She’s genuinely interested in what he has to say.

“Yes and no,” he sighs. “She’s… well, she’s physically healing. And I feel a bit like an ass because I didn’t get a chance to tell her about you—“

“That can’t be what you’re worried about,” Peggy laughs softly. “You’re ridiculous, Steve Rogers.”

“I’m just worried about everything at this point.” He makes a face. “Sorry. I don’t want to dump all this on you.”

“No, no, Steve, it’s fine. Honestly.” She reaches across the table and grabs his hand. It’s comforting, warm, tethering. “I like that you’re being open. It makes it all feel more serious.”

“I’d really like this to be serious.”

“Good, because I don’t plan on letting you out of my sight anytime soon.” She smiles at him and rubs her thumb in circles on the back of his hand. “Would you like to talk about it more?”

“I don’t know what else there is to say.”

“I can always teach her some self-defense moves. It would probably help both of you sleep a little better at night.”

Steve nods. The short silence that follows is comfortable, a cushion to relieve the stress of their daily lives. “It honestly would. I know she wouldn’t do anything stupid like go back, or… I don’t know. She’s just scared.”

Before Peggy can respond, the loud sound of Steve’s phone vibrating from his pocket silences them. He pulls it out with an apologetic smile and sees it’s Bucky this time.

“You might as well answer,” Peggy says with a grin. “They’ll just continue to pester you until you do.”

Steve nods and answers, pressing the phone to his ear. “Hello?”

“Jesus Christ,” Bucky hisses from the other line, “how many times does someone need to call before you fucking answer? Are you half dead?”

“Nice to hear from you, too,” Steve mutters. “I’m in the middle of something. Is everything okay?”

“Y/N’s in the hospital.”

Steve’s blood runs cold.

“Hey, you still there?”

Steve clears his throat. “Yeah, uh, yeah. What do you mean she’s in the hospital?”

Peggy hears this, and wastes no time cleaning up the table, getting ready to leave.

“Brock found her, cornered her in an alley,” Bucky says with venom in his voice. He’s beyond pissed. “Punched her, tried to sexually assault her, and if Clint and Nat didn’t get there in time, he would have stabbed her. He pulled the knife on her right as Nat tackled the bastard. Her face looks like a fucking blueberry, Steve, she’s nearly purple from everything.”

“Which hospital?”

Bucky answers, they end the conversation, and Peggy links her arm through hers. It’s a simple contact that electrifies him and soothes his skin all at the same time. “Let’s go,” she tells him, pulling him towards the door. “We’ll go see her.”

Y/N washes her face and stares into the mirror to evaluate herself. It’s a surprise that Nat allowed her to get out of bed, especially since she can’t quite stand or walk steadily on her own. The fear in her eyes doesn’t match the anxiety in her gut. Not even close.

“Y/N, are you done? Your brother’s here.”

She wishes she had more time. She wants to hide the bruises, to make herself look more presentable. The chance is thrown out the window when she turns around and sees her brother standing in the doorway, his face twisted into something that resembled a heartbreak.

“You didn’t tell me you were leaving the apartment today,” he says, voice wavering.

“I was trying to find a job.” She doesn’t want to ask for help to get back to the bed, but she can’t walk by herself. The woman behind Steve sees this, though, and walks up to her to help, her arm sneaking through hers and taking small steps to get her back to the bed. Her touch is lighter than a feather on her skin, gentle and supportive, and her perfume floral and tempting. 

“You were on a date,” she realises. The woman is beautiful, red lipstick and winged eyeliner, a face good enough to be a god’s. She looks sadly at her brother. “Steve, why did you come here if you were on a date?”

He snorts a short laugh, not believing he heard her correctly. It’s a mocking, hurt laughter than bubbles in this throat as he speaks, voice nearly reduced to a croak. “I’m sorry, what? Why did I come here?”

“You always run after me, you could have at least waited until you were finished. I’m sorry I ruined your date.”

“You didn’t,” the woman says, helping her get back into bed. “Family’s important. Plus, I insisted Steve comes to see you. If I was on a date and my brother was in the hospital, I’d leave to go see him.”

“I’m sorry,” she says, ignoring everything she was just told. “Please tell me it wasn’t a first date.”

“Not at all,” the woman answers. “I’m Peggy, by the way. Steve’s told me a lot about you, Y/N. Is there anything I can get you while you talk to your brother?”

She shakes her head and Peggy smiles politely, turning to the chairs in the corner. “Hey, Nat, do you and Clint wanna come grab a coffee with me?”

Nat pulls Clint up with her and the three leave. She wishes she told Peggy not to leave; the disappointment on Steve’s face hurts her worse than anything Brock could do. Her lips stay sealed until Steve sighs and sits next to her. “What did he do?”

She shakes her head. “Don’t. I know Bucky already told you.”

“Then why were you so surprised to see me here if you knew he called?”

“I thought this would finally be the time you put yourself first,” she answers shyly. “They called you so many times, and I figured you’d pick up, say okay, and come get me later.”

“Do you really think I’d do that to you?”

“Sometimes, I wish you would. I hate knowing I’m the reason you don’t go out or do anything fun. You’re stuck parenting me and I’m sorry I’m such a mess. I’m really sorry, Stevie, I’m trying so hard to get back up again and I’m ruining your plans in the process.”

He looks at her, but she’s staring at her hands in her lap. Tears are slowly rolling down her face; he can’t look away, can’t just ignore the pain she’s going through. His hand reaches cautiously to take one of hers. “Y/N, you mean the world to me. I’m not parenting, I’m acting like a big brother should.”

“You love Peggy and I just ruined a date,” she sniffles. “I’m tearing your life apart.”

“Peggy knows what’s going on,” he tells her. “She’s here to stay. I don’t think she’s going to leave. And besides, she’s the one that practically ran here. We both want to be in each other’s lives, and that means all the sad parts, too. Don’t apologize for this.”

She wipes her eyes and leans against her brother’s shoulder. “As long as you run after me, I’m going to apologize.”

“I can live with a compromise.” He knows she’s done talking about what had happened. Her sniffles are beginning to stop and her shoulders aren’t as tense, but further discussion would throw everything out of balance. Steve wraps an arm around his sister. “So. Wanna officially meet Peggy?”

Y/N shakes her head. “No. I want to meet her over dinner.” Before Steve can argue, she continues. “But! Tell me all about her. She’s insanely hot, Steve. Like, I-wanna-steal-her hot. How’d you two meet?”

Steve grins. Even with her black eye, her bruised neck, and her busted lip, Steve couldn’t help but to think it was just like old times.


End file.
